Paige Taggart
CUBBY
I am a den mother with baby
cubs in the deep spread of winter
lapping the fur
with my tongue to clean the paw’s arch
incongruent sunshine creeps
in— momentary warmth
like breath behind the neck
or fog lifted to tell some
benevolent tale
this is so fairyhood
such a sequel to last
night where I was in a
basement full of poets
letting night do its thing
night is such a different
crawlspace as an animal
to see the word cubby
descend the stairs of
my thoughts / a porthole
into a pre-school
where things are kept
isn’t it familiar to know
this all started with being
a cub
we are held together
TOMORROW I’LL BE ON THE FLOOR SITTING WITH A STACK OF TOOLS
Maybe if I write over and over again
then I’ll come head-on with the surface
of language’s demise
it’ll clutch me in its boughs
and pamper me
showing favoritism for my dark long hair
and freckles
it’ll finally run a fine-tooth comb across my spine
naming the lumbar, sacrum & coccyx
a bridge, a booth, a bride, a friend
to pull my body up from the floor
maybe I’ll be a bank full of money in the afterlife
my neighbor calls the cops on me
protrusion indicates a blow-by-blow set of actions
its intricate affairs
swatches of old quilts
billowing from my memory
the white fluffy batting coming out in little clouds
from holes created over time
a medley of patches: floral, paisley, plaids
each tell little stories
on a whim I might buy one
but it’ll feel too new
I’ll drag it outside
stomp on it
take it to the beach & make the sand grind away at its fabric
bring it to prospect park, lather up in sunscreen
lay across it, dulling its edges
have a real good cry on it
pull its corners to my nose & give it a wholesome blow
wipe my eyes
stinging its poignant needlework with my ambitious saline
repository of sadness & newly bleached jeans grinding into its fabric
I’ll have a quick-lived orgasm on that one purple painted
dragon tail, leaving a little gloss across its scales
it’ll be rhythmic in origin
synonymous
with my origin story
of course
about woods and language
words and contusions
something that i kept saying / thinking
i keep feeling that in society i should be a dog
a magnet
a pie
a deep seeded unfailing thing
proof of income
matrimony
some grubby little school kid’s hand
a ball of yarn
a mountain of little tiny rocks that make up the mountain
the shape fits in your mouth so perfectly
mountain
it's like you could swallow it whole
before you even learned to swallow
when you still just spat up breast milk
reduced the water to a simmer on the stove
brought out the candlelight to show you
we are from a distinguished ppls
before the government could garner your wages
when all was still horsehair
and Caravaggio still painted portraits of the milkmaid
before the Sistine chapel
before greed
and blood for money
our mouths ran a radical seance
spitting stories like cantaloupe seeds
round the fire
paper wasn't even introduced!
it was just free verse from one mouth to the next
the choir was broke and in need of a pianist
but sang anyway
the rhyme was like
“hey i'm sorry it didn't belong on the internet”
which really meant
“i was built with intent”
spring is here and we are all rotten
the cave of a ship holds my uncle's tooth
and i forgot how to read
they said screaming is what kept them most alive
and for this i have failed
father please, let some light in
first by talking to me
i feel nothing
are we docked on an ancient seaboard?
has time all together stopped?
or am i not befit to pace with its gentle edges
have i rounded the corner one too many times
pull me over if you’re not a cop
whip me with a bowling pin
tie my ankles
hang me upside down
i'll be just fine
till the cows come home
you can reevaluate my credit report in this time
you can challenge what disillusions
still prevent me from happiness
Paige Taggart is is the author of two full-length collections, Or Replica (Brooklyn Arts Press) and Want for Lion (Trembling Pillow Press) and 7 chapbooks, most recently LIFE AFTERWARDS (Third Man Books (only available at Third Man Records in London in a randomized literarium machine), Faux Pas (Factory Hollow Press) and I am Writing To You From Another Country; Translations of Henri Michaux (Greying Ghost Press). She runs her own small business, a jewelry line (mactaggartjewelry.com).